


Big Red

by Silverskin



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Bukkake, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 17:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17564666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverskin/pseuds/Silverskin
Summary: A mysterious stranger gets his kicks at a Chinese sex club.





	Big Red

**Author's Note:**

> A short story written last summer, inspired by an artwork by Angelo Night (Wish I could link you to it, but his blog is gone).

The patrons of the _Dragon’s Lair_ in Lanshiang remembered Big Red with legend-like reverence. They never knew his real name, the muscular American preferring anonymity when at the basement sex club. He made his first raincoat-clad appearance there a month after the Bio-terror attack on the city, and his private weekend sessions rapidly turned into a must-attend event.

Soon, richer clientele had started throwing thousands at the management for a place in each of the groups that would ‘entertain’ him, but he himself never asked for a penny of it, seemingly getting-off on being bought and sold like a slab of beef. So, each Saturday at eight, clusters of excited suits would skull-down the last of their Vodkas, slide from their bar stools and file down the narrow corridor to get what they paid for.

And there he’d be, in the dark, leaning back provocatively in his chair, a single low ceiling lamp lighting his thick bulk. Coffee-brown eyes shining with filth in the shadow cast by the brim of his cap. Leather, rubber and obscenely thin spandex struggling under the pressure of bicep and bulge. Thick quads would be spread even wider to show off his half-aroused package, all while his tongue worked the end of a police baton, warming it for later.

All would drink in the view, hungrily waiting for a sign from him. A bottle of lube would be sent rolling along the floor, coming to rest against one man’s polished shoes, followed by a beckoning finger, and a filthy rise to the corner of his mouth.

Some hands would caress, worship. Undressing him as if he were a god. Others would grope hard, tearing fabric. Starving for his hot skin. Lips would follow, soft and slow, fast and desperate. Dark stubble would graze the tongues running over his thick neck and Adam’s Apple. Long licks from ribs to elbows would drink-in his deep musky pits. Hard kisses would attack his mouth and even harder ones the base of his balls.

And he clearly loved all of it. His thick western manhood iron-hard from the start and oozing clear beads onto the busy faces of those lucky enough to service it.

Brazenly, he would grab the nearest hand, slick its fingers firmly and purposely with his mouth, and guide it to his hole. With an anal massage beginning in earnest, he’d then grip the two nearest heads and pull a hungry pervert onto a nipple each. Thick thighs would shake as more digits joined the others inside him, working his hot soft walls. Making him growl into the French kiss straining his angular jaw.

But it was all still to gentle for him.

He would press his palms against the man’s chest, his mighty triceps flexing to pushing him away, but only for a moment. The writhing, desperate tongue slipping from his mouth just long enough to let him growl a single mandarin word to them all in his deep American accent…

“HARDER”

With that, his hands would lift away, straight onto two lube-slicked hard-ons, and mouth would slam against mouth again.

Lips sucking at his nipples would turn to teeth.

Chewing at his bullet nubs.

Making his pecs twitch.

The four fingers in his hole would rise to eight, forced in together. Almost fists. Curling around and pulling at his dilating ring on the way out.

All of this would have been enough for most men, but he’d want even more. Once the hand-jobs from his thick square fists had the two men fully boned-up, he’d reach beneath his chair and hand them each an item.

These where both a rule and a signal.

The only rule he insisted on, never saying why. But anyone who wanted to fuck him HAD to wear them. His kink, they supposed.

One of many.

No words were needed.

While they donned the Kabuki masks and lubed-up, the others would lift Big Red from his chair, exchanging it for a low, leather-clad bench. The two would then switch with the men working his hole, who’d happily give over their twitching erections for a firm, determined hand-job.

Panting heavily, their shafts hardened as much from the sight of his apple biceps flexing as from the diligent strokes themselves, who’s rhythm would break only for a second at the sensation of the first lubed glans bursting through the mighty hunk’s thick ring.

No protection. Another thing he got-off on.

Embracing the danger.

Baring his teeth, he’d nod his encouragement at the hardening thrusts, wanting it even rougher. Wanting to be abused. Raped. Before long, his whole body would be jolting. Pecs quaking on his ribcage from the hammering his hips were getting. Some of the men observing all this, too overcome by the sight, would slip over the edge, spilling their seed onto his flexing eight-pack. The two in his grasp would follow quickly, their bodies convulsing so heavily they’d almost fall. Big Red’s diligent stroking coaxing five or six pearly ropes from each. The seed gathering in the dips and troughs of his belly, his outward breaths emptying the little reservoirs and making it stream down his flanks, tracing the zig-zag lines of his thick anterior muscles.

This Alpha-whore would get into it to another level if the man bitching him could last. Grinding back his bull glutes with a passion onto the pulsing groin, the guy gripping his thick sweaty traps so he could throw all his might into it.

Into HIM.

When the rhythm finally started to falter, Big Red would grab the guy with both hands, pulling him close by the neck and shoulder until his nose touched the painted plastic face. Wild eyes would lock with the fevered ones inside the mask, his expression full of rage, lust…and an edge of fear.

Muffled roars heralding a load blasted deep.

And so it would go on. He’d work his way through every man in the group. Have them cum two of three times each at least. In his mouth, on his herculean torso. Spraying it in his guts. Precum would pour from him, but he wouldn’t cum.

Not yet satisfied.

Not bitched nearly enough.

Worn out, the gang would have no more to give him, but it wasn’t a problem. They’d stagger from the room, shakily picking up their sperm-stained clothing as they went, while management would just send in another enthusiastic posse to work him over even harder.

And he’d take it.

All of it.

For hours.

More fierce grasping hands.

More tongues.

Dildos, paddles, whips. Slops of cum pouring from his insides. Smeared on his rugged jaw. Only when he was completely debased would he cum. Jets of potent American seed Knocked out of him by a final, elbow-deep fisting.

Painting his chest.

His face.

Smeared on his naked assailants.

For the weeks that he visited, the patrons of the Dragon’s Lair felt they were in paradise, lost in an impossible sexual dream. Some had never even been with a westerner, and this magnificent hunk and his dark sexual demands had been beyond anything they could ever have hoped for.

But all too soon it ended. After two months-worth of visits, he failed to appear one weekend, and then the next.

He was gone.

Keen for answers, the management had used a skeleton key to open up the changing room locker assigned to him. The shelves lay empty but for one single item, a patch fallen from his shirt.

Emblazoned across it, an acronym in bold red letters.

Letters that turned it into a final thrilling memento from their time spent servicing that mysterious muscle stud.

**B.S.A.A**

Those nights they’d fucked a hero...


End file.
